


Carve

by scorpiod



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Avery Hockstetter Lives, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Sex, Creepy Patrick Hockstetter, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Murder, Patrick Hockstetter Lives, Pumpkin carving, Pumpkins, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27178999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: Patrick teaches Avery how to carve pumpkins. Among other things.
Relationships: Avery Hockstetter/Patrick Hockstetter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	Carve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [patrick_hotstetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrick_hotstetter/gifts).



> Hey, recip! I tried to combine several of your likes into one prompt, I hope you enjoy! Happy Halloween! This takes place in a nebulous, post chapter one world where Avery never died and neither did Patrick. Please mind the warnings, thank you!

“Wanna see a trick?” Patrick says, twirling the knife in his hand. In his other hand, he has a lighter, flicking it on and off, Avery’s eyes drawn to the tiny flame. 

“Are you going to set something on fire again?” Avery asks, voice dull, unimpressed. He learned a while ago that he can’t give Patrick too much energy. It just isn’t worth it. 

Still, he humors his big brother, crossing his arms over his chest, eying his tools. 

“I thought you liked fire, Ave,” he says, flicking his bic lighter off and on. 

Avery does like fire. He likes looking at the colors of the flame, and all the ways they change. Red, orange, yellow, elusive incandescent blue. Even green, once. 

Patrick sees the query in his eyes, the moment Avery hesitates and opens up for him, and takes his shot. 

“C’mon,” Patrick says, stuffing his lighter in his pocket and using his free hand to haul Avery closer, dragging him to the kitchen. Patrick’s hands on him means he has no choice but to go along; once you’re ensnared, you can’t leave. 

That’s okay. He can play along. Today. 

Patrick stands behind him, a whole head taller than Avery. His chest is hot against his back and his hands linger on his arms, fingers curling in lightly. He hands Avery a serrated blade, and wraps his hand around his wrist. 

“Carve the pumpkin,” Patrick orders. 

“How?” Avery asks. He’s never done it before. 

Patrick’s grip guides his hand to the top of the pumpkin, tapping it with his knife, using his hand to steer him like a puppet. “Carve the lid,” he tells him. “You gotta know about these things.”

Avery wishes Patrick didn’t value the sink-or-swim approach to learning, but alright. He takes a deep breath and stabs the pumpkin, shoving the blade into it. The knife gets stuck half way through, not enough strength to push it all the way down. Avery knows that’s not how you do it, but he doesn’t care. 

Patrick doesn’t seem to mind. He throws his head back and cackles. “Alright, that’s one way to do it. Again.” 

Avery keeps stabbing; this time he doesn’t even hit the top of the pumpkin, but the center, then draws the knife out and stabs again. He grips the knife harder, tighter, until his knuckles are white with it, and then angles it downwards. He stabs the top of it, rapid fire, like he can carve out the lid of the pumpkin by just making enough holes in it, no finesse or artistry. The flesh of the pumpkin is hard, and it takes all of his force to make it give way, even a little.

Patrick just laughs behind him, as Avery stabs holes into the face of the pumpkin, making a haphazard mess of it all. 

“This isn’t right,” Avery points out. His blade is covered in messy orangey pumpkin fluid. His pumpkin lid is only half way open. He stabbed enough holes in it to wreck the front of it, revealing bits of gooey pumpkin guts and seeds inside. No chance of adding a nice design to it, not even a simple one. His chest is heaving, breathing hard. He can feel his pulse go a little faster. 

Avery has a problem with excitement. It takes a lot to get his heart racing. Sometimes, the physical sensation of it sneaks up on him, before his mind realizes what he’s supposed to be feeling. 

Patrick takes the knife from him, still laughing behind him. “No shit, Sherlock? You can’t make a Jack-o'-lantern out of that.” 

“Why did you let me ruin it?” Avery asks, but Patrick pushes him aside, and finishes taking the lid off for him. Patrick is smoother and well practiced with the blade; he doesn’t need as much strength to carve. When he’s done, he takes out a little red ball with a short fuse out of his pocket. 

“This is why. This is a cherry bomb,” Patrick tells him. “We’re gonna put it inside.” 

They take the pumpkin out to the barrens, and Patrick lights it for him. 

“Alright, Avery, kick!” 

Avery thinks fast, kicking the pumpkin far away from him. A few seconds later, it explodes. Pumpkin go boom. Avery laughs. He stares at the explosion of pumpkin guts and gore, orange fall autumn death in the air, better than the 4th of July. The air smells of baked squash. 

“Fun?” Patrick asks him after, ruffling his hair. 

Avery makes himself smile for Patrick, just a bit, and nods. 

Patrick has too much energy, something always bubbling under the surface of his eyes, but Avery didn’t have enough. It takes a lot for Avery to feel interested in something, and even more for excitement to creep on him. Not much made Avery happy but not much made him sad, either. There was just stimulus, looking for something to poke his nerve endings hard enough.

“So what do you wanna be for Halloween, kid?”

Avery thinks about it. He stares at the orange glow of the pumpkin burning in the barrens. “A clown,” he says. 

  
  


~

  
  


“You look like a real Michael Myers there, buddy,” Patrick says, glancing at him as he drives the car. 

Avery has his plastic Jack-o'-lantern in his lap full of candy. At fourteen, he is just barely old to get away with trick or treating, small enough to still be cute about it, but next yeah he may hit a growth spurt and no one will think he’s a little kid anymore. Not that he wants to be, but free candy is a good reason to make himself look younger. 

His clown costume isn’t much. He already took off the red wig and nose for the night, leaving him in a ruffly silky polka dot outfit he can’t wait to get rid of. 

Patrick has a dark robe on for his Halloween costume, but he won’t tell Avery what he’s dressed up as.  _ Are you supposed to be a monk,  _ he asked and Patrick scoffed. 

_ I’m in character,  _ was all he said. 

“Michael killed his older sister,” Avery states. He doesn’t look at his brother as he says that, lets it hang in the air, but he can feel the weight of Patrick’s eyes on him, sharp and predatory. 

Patrick tells him he used to do this with his gang, but they’re all dead now. 

“They weren’t your gang,” Avery says coldly, “they were Henry Bowers’ gang. And he’s still alive. You’re a liar,” he accuses. 

Patrick doesn’t answer him but his hand tightens on the steering wheel. He knows Patrick is imagining those hands around his neck, tightening. Tighter. 

After trick or treating, Patrick drives Avery out to the junkyard. As they stop, in the trunk of their car, someone muffles out a scream.

“Okay kid,” Patrick says, getting out of the car, making Avery follow him. “Now the real fun starts.”

Some people egg a house or throw toilet paper on it for Halloween mischief. Patrick goes above and beyond. He always has; that’s one good thing about him.

In the trunk is some older kid, dressed like a football player, red jersey, number  _ 17  _ on it. He thinks it must be someone from Patrick’s school. He may even be a real football player. Avery wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know very much about high school football. He doesn’t care much about it either. The kid’s eyes are very wide, nearly bulging out. The pulse in his throat is throbbing. Avery can see all the veins in his throat. He could count them, bathed under cool-car lights. His hands are tied with black electrical tape and Patrick had muffled his cries with a gag wrapped around his mouth, held with more black electrical tape. 

Without a word, Patrick takes his knife and cuts the shirt off. The muffled noises grow louder, heavier. He’s trying to scream. His eyes grow wet. 

Avery can’t tear his eyes away. His throat goes dry. His heart beats so loud, he can hear it pound against his ribcage. 

“Hey, Ave. Avery.” 

Avery glances up from the football player to his brother. Patrick twirls the knife in his hand, giving it a little spin, a little flair. It’s a good trick. A good show. For Avery’s benefit, but really, it’s for Patrick. This is his idea. 

“Watch this,” he says and plunges the knife in his chest. 

More muffled screams. These sounds different. They have a different shape, a ragged edge to it, even muted. It’s less fear and more pain and despair, sharpening the sound. 

Blood pools out of his belly as Patrick retracts the knife, pouring over pale skin. It reminds Avery of paint. Slowly he reaches out to touch it, smearing it over his fingertips. It’s so much warmer than he thought it’d be, even in the middle of the night, in Derry late autumn. He smears it down his skin, as if this is his own paint canvas. Avery thinks art is boring. This isn’t boring. 

The man sobs through his gag. 

“Be careful,” Patrick says softly, “you could catch something.” 

Patrick’s voice is muted in his head. He can’t hear him over his heartbeat. All that matters is the pounding of his own heart. 

“I want...” Avery starts, and doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. 

It doesn’t matter. 

“Your turn,” Patrick says, holding out the bloody knife. “Do something interesting.” 

Avery does not stab him the way he did the pumpkin. He can learn from his mistakes. Instead, he takes the knife down the man’s chest, digging the tip of the blade into the space just beneath his collarbone and carves. 

He goes slow. He takes his time. He doesn’t mindlessly stab. He drags the knife down his body and makes little triangles in the blank spaces, triangles and hexagon and pumpkin teeth. Dark crimson blood drips down and makes his chest hair all sticky and clotted. The screams the football player makes have that same ragged sharp edge, reaching a crescendo even through the gag, in soft muffled agony. 

It takes a lot to get Avery excited, to get his motor going, as his brother says. Fire is one. Blood is another. Squealing crying meat on the junkyard floor is another. 

The man is his Jack-o'-lantern. He does not go quick. 

Patrick laughs when he sees his design and claps him on the back. 

The kid from school had stopped struggling. His blood smells like gun metal. The air tastes sharp like ozone, like a cracked sky during a thunderstorm. Something warm and heavy curls in his guts, like a snake rising. 

Avery shudders. There’s blood on his hands, deep under his nails. That’s not coming out easy. 

“Good job, champ,” Patrick says. There’s something like fondness in his voice. Avery knows better than to think it’s the real thing. Patrick can only mimic the emotion, but the same goes for him. 

“Can we put a cherry bomb in him too?” Avery asks, breathless. His own pulse keeps throbbing. His blood hums under his skin. He’s alive. 

Patrick’s smile is wide, like a shark.

  
  


~

  
  


They leave the body in the barrens to be found, in bits and pieces, in an explosion of gore. Some animal will probably find it first, before anyone else, and eat the rest. 

Patrick lays him out in the back seat. Avery can smell him, the corpse, the smell of death wafting back through into the car. The smell of blood and flesh. It makes him excited. 

It makes his cock hard. Patrick notices, grinning to himself and cupping Avery through the dumb clown outfit. 

“Did that get you hard, Ave?” He asks, pushing his palm down on his cock, making Avery flinch and jump upwards, startled. His heart beat goes louder. He can feel it in his dick. He can feel his hair stand on end. Each inch of him is humming. 

Avery nods. His cheeks are red and flushed but that might be the adrenaline. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says. His voice is thick, like he’s talking with cotton in his mouth, and far away, not fully here. “You’re just like me, I knew you’d like this.” 

He takes the dirty blood stained knife and positions it over the fabric of his costume near the collar. 

“I’ll get you off if you let me play with you,” Patrick says. 

_ Play.  _ Between them, play can mean a lot of things. But this is what Patrick does. Bargains. Asks for an inch, takes a mile. Avery is used to it by now. He nods through gritted teeth and like nothing, Patrick splits the fabric, tearing his costume down from collar to groin. Ruined. 

He bucks up into Patrick’s grip when he grabs his dick, pulling it out of his briefs, hand warm, grip firm. At the same time, he places the knife over Avery’s chest, just under his right nipple. Digs it into his skin until Avery hisses. 

Patrick is playing with him. 

“You like that?” He asks, leaning down, hot breath gusting over his cock.

Avery shrugs. It is what it is. Stimulus. Heat, sensation, rough hands. “Maybe do something interesting,” he tells him. 

Patrick bares his teeth. He licks a stripe down his cock and Avery bites down on a squeal, biting down on his lip. Something hot and squirming shudders through him. He arches up and the knife presses down hard into his skin, cutting him. 

“Ah!” Avery shouts, warmth pooling down his chest, his skin burning. Patrick sucks in the head of his cock and it creates the weirdest kind of pressure on him, the hot warmth of his mouth and the burning pain of the blade, making him shake. 

Patrick pops off, raising his head to look at him. 

“Did you like cutting that asshole open?” He drags the knife further down his skin, teasing more pain, more sensation. Points the blade into the softness of his belly. “Was that interesting enough for you?” 

Avery lets out a breath. The thought of carving figures and patterns on the guy makes his cock twitch. One more touch may undo him. He nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Is it always like that?”

Patrick grins and pushes the blade down into his skin. Like pressing on a button, Avery can’t help the sharp gasp he takes in. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Gotta say, nothing gets me harder than hearing someone scream at the edge of my knife. Even you.  _ Especially you. _ ”

Patrick’s eyes are darker than black, pupils swallowing up the iris. Avery knows his eyes must look the same. 

“You scared, buddy?” He pushes the knife against his skin harder, leaving red marks on him, leaving deeper wounds on him—-superficial wounds, blood spilling. 

Avery shakes his head. “No. You don’t scare me.”

Fear has always been difficult for Avery but for that, Patrick cuts him along the edges of his ribs, with sharp quick slices of bloody rivulets that’ll hurt for days. At the same time, his brother dips down and licks a long stripe up his cock, before sucking on the head, licking the slit.

Pain and pleasure, knife burning into his skin and warm wet mouth wrapped around him is all it takes to make him shoot off, coming in Patrick’s mouth with a sharp gasp. 

Avery breathes hard, chest rising up and down. He thinks he should apologize for coming down his brother’s throat, but he’s bleeding from several cuts in his chest, wounds that he’ll feel weeks later, and his costume is in tatters so they’re even. He raises himself up on his elbows, glancing down at Patrick. 

Patrick doesn’t seem mad. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and then licks the blood off his knife, turning his lips cherry-red. 

“You know, kiddo,” Patrick says, his voice lilting, in what passes for affection with him. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you.”

Avery thinks this is supposed to mean something, but he’s not sure what. He matches the smile on Patrick’s face, spreading his lips in a practiced gesture, overly wide, too many teeth. “Yeah, Pat. I’m glad I didn’t kill you too.” 


End file.
